


Pacing

by TinyWinterSnake



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Except Not Quite as Hateful as If This'd Been Right After the Cave Scene, First Kiss, Forgiveness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Now Featuring Grounding Techniques My Therapist Wishes I Would Use, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26096677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyWinterSnake/pseuds/TinyWinterSnake
Summary: Getting together after a fight looks a lot easier in romantic comedies, or:Five times Tony and Bucky struggle with the after-effects of the events leading up to, and including, Siberia + one time they don't.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Pacing

**Author's Note:**

> Very excited to finally break my hiatus or whatever
> 
> This isn't exactly "not Steve Rogers-friendly" but I'm also not a huge fan of Steve's decisions in Civil War and since this is written from Tony's POV.. I'm still team Cap because fuck 12 but maybe we can evade the superhuman registry while also mentioning that our best friend killed our other best friend's parents. It's the 21st century, send a text.
> 
> Regardless, it gets to be more neutral by the end of the story.

**1**  
The sky is blue. The sky is blue and there’s a singular cloud still visible in the top corner of the window but in just a second it’ll be gone, and the desk is deep brown, scuffed slightly where Steve’s shield drags when he pulls it off the table, and there’s a ring of water where he’d forgotten to use a coaster, and a can of Pepsi still sweating even though it’s been half an hour, and a singular metal hand resting at the edge of the other side of the table because Bucky isn’t yet aware it’s creeped back up.

The table has a small box apron, just big enough to rest his thumb and press hard into the wood, and the chair is feels stiff and mildly uncomfortable after sitting properly for so long, and his feet are sore from squatting on his toes in beat up sneakers, and the air in the conference room feels cool on the back of his neck where sweat has gathered near the hairline.

The hum of the air conditioner is mildly distracting and he should get it fixed and he will, when focusing is possible, but right now it’s just Bucky- not droning, Tony’s not bored, just overwhelmed and distracted, Bucky’s just talking- and his slightly raspy voice grating just enough to ramp up his heart rate, and it seems like a bad decision in this moment with his throat constricting and eyes burning, and he wonders if it’s too late in the year to make excuses about allergies or too early to bring up flu season, it’s just that all of this counting and grounding isn’t working and his calves hurt where he’s tense and his fingers hurt where he’s holding one like he’s about to pop the knuckle and he doesn’t want to be grounded; he wants to fly in the blue sky with the singular cloud and chase the rest of them and not have to think about why Bucky is in his tower and in his conference room and Steve isn’t and whether that’s right and just and how everyone feels about it but him. He doesn’t want to hear another apology, Steve has pleaded Bucky’s case on his behalf enough, and he can’t focus on the legitimacy of what Bucky is saying because every existing emotion seems to be running through his veins, making him feel wired and conflicted. He wants to ask if they can do this later, any time that’s not right this very moment, but he can’t pry his jaw open to speak.

A tissue box hits him in the arm, visibly startling him, and he jerks his head up to stare a bit incredulous and more confused at Bucky, who has removed his hand from the table, who screws his face up looking sheepish and scared the way he does when he realizes he’s violated some unspoken social norm in favor of efficiency.

“It’s just,” he starts, stops, pauses for a short time, “it’s just- I’ve been cryin’ a lot recently. Tissues here are soft, got lotion in them. They’re helpful, if you want,” he adds as an afterthought. “If you want,” he repeats, trailing off.

Tony stares. A tear falls, joining the ring of water running towards the ledge.

“They’d better be soft,” he mutters, uncurling his fingers to reach for a tissue, “they’re expensive.”

**2**  
“Has anyone seen Bucky?” he asks, drumming his fingers idly on the countertop as he waits for his coffee to finish brewing. It’s futile, he knows no one has seen Bucky, he knows no one has seen Bucky because he knows Bucky is in his room, hasn’t left his room, and he knows because he asked Jarvis. He wants to know how long it’s been since he left, since he ate, since he stopped listening to the same song on low volume because everything about his senses is dialed up, but he doesn’t want to invade what little privacy he’s managed to reclaim so he’s in the kitchen instead, asking stupid questions and wondering why money can’t buy good instant coffee.

Steve, just there for the morning, just there to train with the newest members before he fucks off back to SHIELD, back to his apartment, back to anywhere except where he has the potential to corner Tony with his big blue eyes and heartfelt apologies, shakes his head carefully. Everything about him is careful these days, and he opens his mouth to tell Tony what he already knows but Tony is turning on his heel, yanking open the refrigerator. He grabs two packages of crackers, then doubles back and grabs two bottles of water.

“Thanks, I’ll check his room,” he interrupts as he straightens, strides out of the kitchen without his coffee.

He knocks once, twice, announces his presence and opens the door slowly when his straining ears can’t pick up a response. Bucky is on the floor near the bed, facing away from the light leaking in between the curtains, and his eyes register Tony but he doesn’t speak. He looks clean, at least, his hair isn’t sleek like it normally is but it’s in a relatively neat bun at the top of his head, and his face isn’t puffy like he’s been crying. There’s an empty mug with the tea bag still in it nearby.

“Mind if I sit with you? Feeling a bit crowded in my own tower,” he jokes and waves his phone, “I’ll just be working. Quiet as a church mouse. Not a peep from me.”

Bucky nods slowly, so he sits, slides the crackers and a bottle of water over with all the exaggerated shadiness of a cult classic drug dealer, and loses himself in the slow, experimental music and irregular rustling of the crackers’ casing. It’s an hour, maybe, before he realizes he left his coffee in the kitchen and it’s probably not worth risking running into someone. Bucky’s managed to doze off, curled in on himself and clutching his midsection with both arms, brow furrowed slightly. He wants to push his thumb between them and smooth them out, he gets up off the floor instead and searches for a sticky note, pulls on a pair of sunglasses and opens his phone to place a mobile order.

He’s back less than an hour later. Bucky still doesn’t answer the door, but he’s awake again, listening to the same song in the same position, and his eyes look swollen now, but he waves a hand in Tony’s direction so he kneels down on the floor next to him and drops a stuffed animal on his head.

Objectively, it’s hideous. Tie dyed and zebra print in cotton candy tri-colors, but soft and squishy, and yes, Bucky has had worse than sleeping on the floor of the Tower, but this is as much about the humor Tony feels when Bucky’s nose rightfully scrunches at the offensive creature as it is comfort. He pushes a cup towards him as well,

“hot chocolate, extra whipped cream, with drizzle,” he recites dutifully and receives the royal nod of approval.

Bucky reaches for the stuffed animal.

“The tag said her name is Aurora,” he says around the strange swirl of satisfaction in his gut.

  
**3**  
They’re in the lab while Tony works. It’s comfortable: so much so that he has his schematics up, flipping through them as he needs without bothering to minimize them after, and periodically he’ll ask for the name of some city-pop song playing, its sound completely contrary to the frustrated huffs from Bucky as he yanks a tie from the end of his hair, combs his fingers through it, and rewings the video on his laptop as he prepares for another attempt at a french braid. It’s gotten long now, falling down his back in smooth waves when his mood is good and stable, or twisted into tight buns then come loose halfway through the day when it’s not; Tony likes to buy him tacky, novelty hair pins and watch him struggle to incorporate them into his outfits, taking full advantage of Bucky’s inability to not appreciate a gift.

“You’re vain Barnes,” he calls over the synthesizers, taking aim with a particularly fat blueberry. His phone rings, he falters as he throws, reaches down to silence it without looking.

“One of us has gotta be the attractive one,” Bucky retorts with a snort, his expression brightening as the berry flies past him and falling into a scowl again as he takes in his uneven part. The phone rings again but Tony’s already scribbling on a holoscreen in his slanted, messy script, all half sentences and barely formed thoughts he’ll have to sift through later.

A third time followed by the sharp buzzing of an incoming text and Bucky glances up from what is shaping up to be his best braid yet, “it’s Steve, isn’t it?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the mirror in front of him.

“Yup,” Tony replies, popping the ‘p’ in the obnoxious way he always does when he’s irritated, reaching for his phone with one hand, rubbing absently at his chest with the other. Opening the message chain is a mistake, as always, because

“He wants to apologize again?” Bucky sighs, turning to look at him.

“Of course,” and there it is, the telltale constriction, the way his breathing ticks up. Not much, not right now, just enough to be noticeable.

“Why d’ya keep talking to him?”

“Teamwork or something, Fury says. Everyone else likes him. It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s just- when he apologizes, he wants something to come of it. He thinks if he says it enough I’ll forget what happened, and we can all have a big, teenage sleepover and sing kumbaya in the living room. He wants that, he can’t have that,” and his voice is rough at the end, not breaking, but something is there: raw and vulnerable and it makes his chest hurt more. It feels unfair, this anger, this situation, ranting to a man who was a good part of the reason Steve drove the shield into his heart anyway.

“Want me to tell him to back off?”

“You don’t have to fight my battles for me,” he retorts sharply, too sharply, but his responses must not be as dismissive as he thought because he can tell Steve is gearing up to ask him to go to dinner, to ask him to sit across from the hands that gripped the weapon he can’t look at anymore and ask them to pass the salt, and listen to him talk about how sorry he is, he misses Tony, he misses Bucky who still talks to him but is more distant, more guarded, who doesn’t laugh as much or as easily as he apparently did when they were young. He feels smug thinking about Bucky, red-faced and near tears with his hands wrapped around his stomach as he begs for reprieve from Tony’s terrible, not-fit-for-polite-company stories; he feels guilt coiling in his stomach as he thinks about Bucky, stone faced and blank with black smudged around his eyes, hands tightened around his mother’s throat.

“M’not trying to,” he says, not defensively, “just saying I might be able to help, if you want.”

“Yeah, yeah that’d be great,” he agrees finally, tossing the phone face down onto the desk with the messages left unanswered. It’s getting better with Steve, slowly; it used to be that he couldn’t stand to think about or acknowledge his existence, that even words on a screen knowing he was hundreds of miles away was too much, would leave him choking back tears in the small space under his desk, but Steve wants too much too fast. Steve wants to return to heated arguments in the war room that turn into easy camaraderie in the common spaces. Tony wants to brush past him in a narrow hallway without feeling like his heart is trying to escape his chest.

He leans forward until his head is resting on the edge of his desk and looks at the ground, counting the lines that make up the tiles until his breathing is regular and comfortable again. Bucky has gone back to his hair when he straightens up and he appreciates the privacy.

“Come help with my hair,” he demands, and Tony knows that it’s an offer out, a distraction, Bucky is probably capable of learning to braid his own hair if he gives it a few more hours and a lot more bobby pins.

“Can’t, have to work, some of us have jobs you know. Maybe you’ve heard of them?” he mocks.

Bucky doesn’t assess him just takes him at face value; he appreciates it, he’s tired of being pushed by people who think they know what he needs. He shrugs, flashing a crooked grin over in Tony’s direction.

“Ain’t gotta work, my best friend is rich, got his own tower and everything.”

**4**  
There’s too many people at this party. There’s always too many people: too many reporters, too many socialites who care nothing for the Avengers’ work and everything for furthering themselves by associating with them, too many other heroes all looking ill at ease in their tailored suits. It’s been a long couple of weeks, events seemingly every night. Tony wishes he weren’t sober at these parties, the mocktails he and Steve tend towards are lovely, of course, but everything seems easier with the added disinhibition. He scans the crowd, tracks Steve making his way towards him with drinks in hand. Everything seems blurry and fast, like a carnival horror scene in a B-movie, it would be funny if it were slightly more bearable.

“Tony? You okay?” and there’s Steve, passing off a highball.

“I’m fine. Crowds, y’know?” he says and Steve raises his glass with a somber little nod. They stand in silence for a few moments, not quite shoulder to shoulder but closer than acquaintances. The cold drink soothes his throat enough to strike up conversation: something simple, passing jokes about the politicians present, passing judgement on particularly heinous fashion crimes, passing his mostly-full glass to Steve when he drains his first. Their fingers brush and it’s the first contact they’ve had since the cave. Steve looks contrite, Tony pulls his hand back but doesn’t jerk away; it feels like progress.

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve asks, turning to survey the room. Normally, the question would be tinged with jealousy, snide, like one middle schooler confronting another about a new friend, but tonight it’s neutral. Concerned, maybe, because Bucky has been spending more sleepless nights haunting the common areas, laying on the floor in front of a fireplace struggling to feel its warmth.

“At the bar, maybe, or in one of the smaller rooms?”

Steve hums, starts to take a step, and falters, looks back at Tony with his face unreadable. “You should go. Maybe somebody can talk some sense into him, convince him that flowers don’t belong in cocktails.”

It feels like a blessing. Tony’s gut twists and he wants to run. He tosses up a mock salute and turns sharply on his heel.

Bucky’s not at the bar, or in the restroom, or in any of the designated side rooms, so he begs a bottle of cranberry juice from the bartender and pushes through an exit door to get to the roof. He follows the spicy, citrusy smell of smoke to Bucky, who stands near the parapet with a joint burning in one hand folded behind his back and the other fisted near his mouth, confessing in stilted Russian to a small, white cat sitting on the fire escape.

“Bucky?” he calls, more to make sure his presence is known than to be cautious.

Bucky turns to face him, not bothering to hide his eyes, red-rimmed from the drugs and still shining with tears. Closer to him now, Tony can see where his lower lip is gnawed raw in patches, where it’s been soothed over by his tongue.

“Got tired of talking to people who want to talk to Iron Man, figured I’d bother someone who’s just as embarrassing as Tony Stark,” he says as he leans back on his elbows, sliding the juice across the ledge casually. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a moment, tilting his head to sky to avoid having to look at the bobbing of Bucky’s throat as he unscrews the lid and drinks directly from the bottle, or having to acknowledge the dangerous feeling welling up in his stomach again as he catches a stray droplet from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, sucks the liquid off.

“Felt too intense in-” he starts as he goes to raise the joint to his mouth again, pauses, “d’you want me to put this out?”

He does, actually, not because it bothers him. He can’t stand the sight of Bucky’s lips wrapped around the tip. He shakes his head, stares resolutely up at the stars.

“Too many people, not as many boundaries” he says with a sardonic grin. “It gets too intense, sometimes, the way they won’t stop touching me because they think I’m more property than person. Feels like being back with Hydra,” he pauses again, biting the inside of his lower lip, “never seem to listen for long if I tell ‘em to quit, always go back to shoving their ideas, or daughters, or companies at me and sealing the damn deal with a pat on the back or my fuckin’ chest. I’m not important enough to listen to unless it’s benefiting them,” and Tony wishes he would sound angry but he sounds exhausted, and he rubs at his eyes while he gathers himself and he knows he wants to cry again, “like I just need to be pointed in the right direction and nothing else matters- and, and I can never get any goddamn sleep after ‘cause I can’t stop remembering, and I can’t just remember what they did, I have to remember what I did too.”

He takes a long drag and coughs the smoke out on a laugh just this side of hysterical, “who would’ve thought being able to remember shit would be my problem?”

Tony turns his head to look at him, takes the juice and holds a sip in his mouth for a moment, thinking of empty platitudes.

“Do you think it’d help to have someone else there? I’m usually up working in the lab, you already take naps there so why not just stay? Think it’d do any good? Could even bring the cat, probably like it better than out here” he adds, hoping he sounds generous instead of overbearing.

Bucky looks back at him long and quiet, so long Tony’s tempted to squirm under his gaze, to retract his statement, but Bucky stretches out his free hand in offerance and twines their fingers briefly, giving a grateful squeeze.

“It might,” he says simply.

**5**  
Another long night, another dull party, and it comes to an end with four of them: Sam, Steve, Tony, and Bucky, walking down dimly lit city streets with a pipe that won’t affect two of them passed between three of them and their suits half undone. With the cloud of smoke and their loud laughter, they look more like bachelor party leftovers than superheroes and it suits Tony just fine. It feels good to be unremarkable and he relishes in the annoyed, disgruntled looks they get from passersby after an evening of faux-admiration. He takes the glass from Sam and holds it, jogging up in front of the trio to record them as Steve and Bucky try to swing Sam between them like two proud parents with a happy toddler. It doesn’t work, of course, they’re all too close in height and Sam’s feet scrape the ground, but he laughs and laughs as they overbalance and topple over into a small, tangled heap. Steve’s managed to rip a seam where his dress pants were already tight over the thigh and it gets them all going, with Sam doubled over clutching his stomach and trying not to cry, and Steve looking increasingly horrified as Bucky promises to patch them over for him, “just like old times.” His eyes shine with mirth.

Tony watches and laughs and feels like his heart is going to burst.

They get back up, dust themselves off, and Tony finds himself crowded as they all come over to watch the video. Bucky rests one hand between his shoulder blades for balance as he leans over to watch, and the ends of his hair tickle the exposed skin on Tony’s neck. He wants to brush that hair behind Bucky’s ear and press his lips to his cheek, his neck. He tilts the phone for a better angle and says instead:

“Cheeseburgers? Cheeseburgers. Let’s get cheeseburgers,” and when they finish watching he misses the warmth at his back.

They crowd into a booth made for smaller men and he would complain, but Bucky has claimed the spot next to him and their thighs are pressed together in the narrow space, even though his knees also knock Steve’s, and their elbows brush when they reach for the mound of fries piled in the middle of the table. He zones out, mouth full of grease and cheese and bacon and bliss.

Steve, indignant and too-loud in the small diner, throws a spectacularly burned fry at Bucky, damn near hollering “I am a catch! Sam would be so lucky!”

And Tony, unable to pass up the opportunity to harass Steve these past few weeks now that they’ve become friendly if not friends again, eeks out an “eh” with a little waggle of his hand.

Bucky snorts in unison with Sam and Steve looks betrayed.

They leave late, close to closing, and on the way home he demands that Bucky carry him, which inspires Sam, and they end up racing home. The tower, at any rate, which is quickly becoming home to all of the Avengers again and most nights, like tonight, it feels warm and welcoming and privileged to see them there.

But in the elevator when it’s just the two of them left, Bucky’s laugh turns wobbly.

“Oh,” he says, small and soft and surprised, bringing his metal hand up to catch one of the tears suddenly streaking down his face. “M’sorry, nothing’s wrong, just overwhelmed. I’m so happy, really” he mumbles as he wipes his face on his sleeve.

Tony steps in close, pulls out a handkerchief. Bucky laughs wetly, makes a joke about wealthy people and their unnecessary accessories, and crumples it into his fist more than using it. Tony opens his arms, gesturing with his fingers for him to step into them, goes up on his toes so Bucky doesn’t have to bend so far to tuck his face into the crook of his neck.

“It doesn’t feel real sometimes,” he chokes out, his voice thick and muffled, and he pauses for a moment trying to choke back a series of whimpering sobs, “like I’ll wake up in another fuckin’ cage and realize I dreamt it all up and I’m still with Hydra, and I’m so happy here that I don’t know what I’d do if I did. I want it to just be real.”

He tenses and Tony knows he wants to pull away, and apologize, and make an excuse and a joke and go to his room, and he’ll wake up in the morning, and everything will be fine, or he’ll wake up in the morning and pretend and pretend and pretend because it’s been months and it should be different, it should be over, and Tony is tired and impulsive and he’s so happy, they’re both so happy, they should be happy.

He tightens his grip around Bucky’s neck.

“Stay with me tonight,” he says, rushed and a bit fearful; he’s made this offer before and Bucky’s taken him up on it, falling asleep on the couch in the lab, curled up with Alpine and a chunky knit blanket, but this is his room. This is his space. There’s no reason to be in the lab tonight and Bucky knows it. “My bed is fucking gigantic and you know it, we won’t even have to touch, or I can sleep in one of the chairs, just- stay.”

Bucky’s hands are loose around his waist and he pats him gently, absently, like he’s gearing up to decline and leave anyway but he just keeps patting him and trying to get his breathing back under control until finally, he stills his hand and pulls back just enough to look him in the face.

“Okay,” he says shakily, “okay, and I don’t mind sharing,” and Tony grins so wide it almost hurts.

  
**+1**  
He wakes up slowly the next morning, warm and comfortable. The morning brightness has already begun its progressive filtering through the automatic windows behind his headboard, and the first thing he sees when he finally opens his eyes is the haphazardly slung metal arm draped across his waist and their feet tangled beneath the blankets that have been kicked down below their knees. Bucky’s still-even breathing tickles the back of his neck and he shudders, closing his eyes again.

He wakes again much later and the arm is gone but Bucky remains, sitting cross-legged on the bed with Alpine in his lap, purring contentedly as Bucky reads aloud to her quietly. He rolls over to face him fully and is greeted with a cup of coffee, strong and black and sweetened, and a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, was kinda clinging to you in my sleep,” he says, cheeks flushed prettily.

“Are you?” Tony challenges, and Bucky shakes his head unrepentantly, his grin full and happy now. He rolls his eyes and takes a large gulp of his coffee, definitely burning himself in the process, but this way he can watch Bucky as he goes back to reading: he lingers, taking in the smoothness of his jaw where Tony’s woken up with stubble, the line of his neck when he pauses to lean over and scratch behind Alpine’s ears, the crinkling at the corner of his eyes when she bats at his hand and trills happily, the way his lips move to shape words, the way they stretch when he smiles, the little glimpse of his tongue as he wets them.

“You wanna kiss me, or keep staring?” he says after some time, setting the book aside and turning to face him more fully.

“Kissing you is an option?” Tony asks after several seconds of staring, mouth gaped with embarrassment and cheeks aflame.

“Has been for a while now.”

Tony shifts to sit up and sets his coffee aside; his hands shake with nervousness, and his heart nearly hurts with how fast it beats, but Bucky gathers his hands in his and he calms. Neither of them moves immediately, they sit, knees brushing with their foreheads together until he feels steady again. He tilts his head, leaning in until their lips meet and it’s everything and nothing all at once: it feels terrifying and exhilarating and nerve-wracking, it feels comfortable and familiar and inevitable, like they’ve always been along this path, like this is how it’s always been. Bucky’s lips are soft and sure on his, his arm around his waist tight and secure, holding their chests close, and his hair feels soft where it brushes the arm draped around his neck.

They break apart slowly, coming together for more several times before they finally part. Tony feels light and full all at the same time, and can only imagine he looks a sight with his lips still tingling, face hot, giddy laughter welling up.

Bucky, looking overwhelmed and relieved all at once, is the first to giggle and it breaks the dam and they fall back onto the pillows, clutching their stomachs and feeding off of the sound of the other until it hurts too much to continue. They catch their breath, Bucky kisses him to steal it away again then lays his head on Tony’s chest.

He flattens his hand just below where the reactor used to sit, sniffles once, not sadly.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, awed, into Tony’s skin, “I never thought it’d be real.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me on my tumblr, tinywintersnake.tumblr.com <3
> 
> The link to the ugly plushie can be found [here](https://moosh-moosh.com/collections/squared/products/aurora), I have a different one and it's actually very soft and useful for laying on the floor when depressed but this one, good god.


End file.
